


Color Is But Fractured Light

by Monica_Tailor



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Circus!Dylan, Circus!Kieran, M/M, but eh I like those chances, chances are only one (1) other person will read this and get this, heavy-handed symbolism, no plot just colors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monica_Tailor/pseuds/Monica_Tailor
Summary: He sees many things, through the haze of pain and poison-fever.
Relationships: Dylan Rosenthal/Kieran White
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Color Is But Fractured Light

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Myth of Sun and Flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648298) by [Jane_Dorocak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane_Dorocak/pseuds/Jane_Dorocak). 



> Or: a month after reading Jane_Dorocak's Dylan/Kieran fic and I still can't get her color metaphor out of my head. On that note – do yourself a favor, go read it first, get your heart broken like I did, it'll get you in the mood :*) and also without the context this whole thing is just 700 words of pure senseless color fuckery XD
> 
> (Unless, of course, you don't want your heart broken and/or you're into pure senseless color fuckery. In that case, feel free to proceed ;^))

He sees many things, through the haze of pain and poison-fever:

***

He sees the color of those moments stolen on the brink of day and night, of rosy clouds and periwinkle spilling overhead. 

Another sky, pink crayon and flimsy paper. Pink cheeks and the glistening, sweat-glazed skin after training. The hair of a girl, as pink as the color dusting her face at her best friend’s praise.

***

He sees the blue of an officer’s uniform, looking at him quizzically as he speeds down the dirty white stone stairs leading up to the station. He sees the last of the midday blue bleeding out of the sky as he gathers up the stray strands of want that had been fluttering about his chest for far longer than he’d like to admit – like sparkling brooks, a wellspring that runs deep – and leans in for his first kiss. 

***

He sees the golden-crusted bread and pastries behind glass, paid for with coins so blindingly yellow, with banknotes that rustle just the same as the golden tall grass fields the circus passes through sometimes, stretching far and wide all around. The strange children playing there, in the sun, without a care in the world. He sees the gilded waves along the coast, too, waters limitless as far as the eye can tell. Feels the twisting in his gut at the sight of small, shiny ships sailing as they please, while he can’t stray a single step from the caravan. 

He sees the yellow flower – _also known as Poet’s Narcissus_ – the very one he went to seek one early morning and found something infinitely more precious instead. 

He sees a girl's golden eyes that he could never quite capture, on paper or in his imagination, but they seem so alive now, glimmering, burning, shimmering, like air rippled by fire.

( _there is more life and light in those eyes, in all of these images, than there s left in him_ )

***

He sees the white of a bandage wound firmly yet gently. Two pairs of fingers dancing over ivory keys.

( _if he closes his eyes, he can almost feel their touch, too_ )

He sees the white of dandelion fluffs – _make a wish and blow them off the stem, it may just come true_ – and a boy with matching white-fluff hair lounging in the grass beside him, twirling one of the still-blooming flowers in his hand. _They travel with the wind, y’know. One of them can set to flight here, and you’ll find it growing many miles away, a long time down the line. You never know..._ the boy brings the flower up to admire it, and – no, it’s not yellow, not even golden, but something else entirely. 

The flower is a piece of sunlight in his hand.

( _he didn’t make a wish, though – he made a_ promise)

( _not that fate is ever more gracious towards one or the other_ )

He remembers that small, white-crowned daisy, how little it needs to live: a little rain, a little warmth, a little soft earth to root in.

( _nothing so white can grow here, from blood raining on concrete, cold as the irons weighing on his limbs_ )

***

He sees the red flicker of a lamp, the matching spark burning in his own stomach. The red of eyes raw with tears. 

He sees the view from the top of that broken-down church tower – they stayed up there, until the ember of the Sun started setting like a body being lowered into its grave and the horizon was an open wound. 

Red, like the ringmaster’s coat, his ruddy face even more sanguine and swollen than usual as he calls out the names at the top of his lungs. Red, like blood that comes trickling out of a nose or gushing out of a mouth – his own mouth, dripping down his own chin, warm stains blooming on his own shirt... 

***

He sees a girl’s violet eyes turned dark. He sees the twin purple costumes, one trimmed with floral prints, the other adorned with a bright yellow ribbon at the throat. And then, there are the flowers.

Always the flowers, so many he’s lost count long ago- 

The bloodied, purple flowers of his dreams. 


End file.
